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speranza met Myron
in the back corner of Baumgart’s.

Baumgart’s restaurant was an old Jewish soda fountain/deli that had been purchased by Chinese immigrant Peter Chin. Wanting to do something both different and wise, Peter had kept all the old touches and added an Asian fusion (whatever that meant) menu and some neon lights and hip décor. Now you could order Kung Bao Chicken or a Pastrami Reuben, the Chinese Eggplant Combo or a Turkey Club.

Peter came over and bowed toward Esperanza. “You do my restaurant a great honor with your presence, Ms. Diaz.”

Myron said, “Ahem.”

“And you don’t completely kick its reputation to the curb.”

“Good one,” Myron said.

“Did you see it?” Peter asked.

“See what?”

Beaming now, Peter pointed behind him. “Look at my wall of honor!”

Like many restaurants, Baumgart’s hung up framed autographed photographs of the celebrities who had dined there. It was an eclectic mix of New Jersey celebrity. Brooke Shields was up there. So was Dizzy Gillespie. Grandpa “Al Lewis” Munster was on the same wall, along with several stars from
The Sopranos,
a few New York Giants players, local news anchors, a
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit model, and an author Myron had once read.

There, hung dead center between a rapper and a villain from the old
Batman
TV show, was a photograph of Esperanza “Little Pocahontas” Diaz dressed in her suede bikini. The bikini top was starting to slide down her shoulder. Esperanza posed in the ring, sweaty and proud and looking up.

Myron turned to her. “You stole that pose from Raquel Welch in
One Million Years B.C
.”

“I did.”

“I had that poster on my wall when I was a kid.”

“So did I,” Esperanza said.

Peter was still beaming. “Great, right?”

“You know,” Myron said, “I was a professional basketball player.”

“For about three minutes.”

“You’re so nice to your customers.”

“Part of my charm. Your food will be out soon.”

Peter left them alone. Esperanza was killer in an aqua blouse.
She wore gold hoop earrings and a thick bracelet. Her cell phone buzzed. She took a look and closed her eyes.

“What?” Myron asked.

“Tom.”

“He’s texting you?”

“No, it’s my attorney. Tom canceled all settlement talks.”

“So he’s going full frontal.”

“Yep.”

“I’d like to help.”

She shook him off. “We’re not here to discuss Tom.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t.”

Nicole the waitress came over with appetizer-sized Cold Sesame Noodles and a Sizzling Duck Crepe. Serious yum. They both went quiet for a moment and ate. Way back when, Myron Bolitar had founded a sports agency cleverly dubbed MB SportsReps. The
M
stood for Myron, the
B
for Bolitar, the SportsReps because he repped athletes. Marketing—it’s a gift, really.

Esperanza came on as his receptionist/assistant/confidante/assorted other hats. She went to school at night to get her law degree. Eventually she moved up to full partner, though she didn’t insist on changing the name to MBED because, really, that would be confusing. They did drop “Sports” from the name when they started representing actors and musicians and the like, so that in the end, the company had been called MB Reps.

Big Cyndi took over as receptionist and, well, agency bouncer. Things went along pretty swimmingly until they all fell apart. When Tom started this slash-n-burn custody hearing a year ago—back then he’d claimed Esperanza was an unfit mother because she worked too hard—Esperanza had been so freaked-out by the
threat that she asked Myron to buy her out. Myron hesitated, but then when Win disappeared, the thought of continuing without both of them was too disheartening. They ended up selling MB Reps to a mega-agency that took their clients and got rid of the name altogether.

“So I went to the Alpine police station,” Esperanza said, “to see what they were doing with the Moore-Baldwin case.”

“And?”

“They wouldn’t talk.”

Myron stopped eating. “Wait, they wouldn’t talk to you?”

“That’s right.”

He thought about that. “Did you flash cleavage?”

“Two buttons’ worth.”

“And that didn’t work?”

“The new police chief is female,” Esperanza said. “And straight.”

“Still,” Myron said.

“I know, right? I was a little insulted.”

“Maybe I should try,” Myron said. “I’m told I have a terrific ass.”

Esperanza frowned.

“I could meet her. Turn the charm on full blast.”

“And have her disrobe right in the station?”

“You may have a point.”

Esperanza rolled her eyes without actually rolling her eyes. “I don’t think she can help us anyway. The local force has had a lot of turnover since Rhys and Patrick were kidnapped.”

“I doubt they’ll handle the case this time anyway.”

“I’m sure it’ll get kicked up to state or federal, but Big Cyndi
did a little digging. The guy who ran the case ten years ago is retired. His name is Neil Huber.”

“Wait, I know that name.”

“He’s a state senator in Trenton now.”

“No. Something else . . .”

“He used to be a high school basketball coach.”

Myron snapped. “That’s it. We played Alpine when I was in high school.”

“So maybe you should be the one who talks to him,” Esperanza said. “Do your male sports bro–connect thing.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Myron said.

“Or wiggle your once-terrific ass.”

“I’ll do what it takes,” Myron said. Then: “Wait, ‘once-terrific’?”

*   *   *

Myron waited outside the nightclub.

New York City’s Meatpacking District traditionally runs from West Fourteenth Street down to Gansevoort Street on the far west side of the island. In the 1900s it was known for, what else, slaughterhouses, but with the rise of supermarkets and refrigerated trucks, the area began to fall into disrepair. In the 1980s and 1990s, drugs and street prostitution were the main industry down there. It was a place where transsexuals and BDSM practitioners could thrive side by side with the Mafia and NYPD corruption. Nightclubs catering to what was then considered “subculture” began to open.

But like most of Manhattan, the Meatpacking District underwent another transformation. It started in part because people are
drawn to the illicit—to the sleaze, if you will—but then, of course, the rich who crave danger want to go out on that edge with the most comfortable safety harness possible. So gentrification took hold. High-end boutiques offered commerce with trendy exposed brick. The grungy nightclubs became overrun with hipsters. The restaurants started to cater to whatever they started calling yuppies. The old rusted elevated railroad tracks became a tree-lined promenade called the High Line.

The Meatpacking District was now clean and safe and you could bring your kids, and yet when something like that happens, where does the sleaze go?

Myron checked his watch. It was midnight when the man finally lurched out of the trendy Subrosa nightclub. He was drunk. He’d grown a beard and wore flannel and, oh man, was that really a man bun? He had his arm draped like a strap around a young—too young—woman. The words “midlife crisis” weren’t tattooed on his forehead, but they should have been.

They started stumbling down the road. The man took out his car keys and pressed the remote button. His BMW beeped its location. Myron crossed the street and made his approach.

“Hello, Tom.”

The man, Esperanza’s ex, spun toward him. “Myron? Is that you?”

Myron stood and waited. Tom seemed to sober up a bit. He stood up a little straighter. “Get in the car, Jenny,” he said.

“It’s Geri.”

“Right, sorry. Get in the car. I’ll be with you in a second.”

The girl teetered on her heels. It took three tries but she managed to open the passenger door and fall inside.

“What do you want?” Tom asked.

Myron pointed at his head. “Is that really a man bun?”

“So you’re here to make jokes?”

“Nope.”

“Did Esperanza send you?”

“Nope,” Myron said. “She has no idea I’m here. I’d be grateful if you didn’t tell her.”

The passenger door opened. Geri said, “I don’t feel so good.”

“Don’t you dare throw up in my car.” Tom turned to Myron. “So what do you want?”

“I want to encourage you to make peace with Esperanza. For her sake. And for your son’s.”

“You know she left me, right?”

“I know your marriage didn’t work.”

“And you think it was my fault?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.” More young people spilled out of the nightclub, laughing and cursing in the obnoxious way of the greatly intoxicated. Myron shook his head. “Don’t you think you’re too old for this, Tom?”

“Yeah, well, I was married and settled, you know.”

“Let it go,” Myron said. “Stop lying about her.”

“Or what?”

Myron said nothing.

“What, you think I’m afraid of you?”

Geri said, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Not in the car, honey, okay?” Tom turned back to Myron. “I’m working on something here.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“She’s hot, right?”

“Hot,” Myron agreed. “And about to vomit. Yeah, I’m all turned on.”

“Listen, Myron, no offense. You’re a good guy. You’re not much of an intimidator. Just piss off, okay?”

“Esperanza is a good mother, Tom. We both know that.”

“It isn’t about that, Myron.”

“Yeah, well, it should be.”

“I don’t want to sound immodest,” Tom said, “but do you know why I’m a big success?”

“Because your daddy is rich and gave you lots of money?”

“No. It’s because I go for the jugular. It’s because I win.”

Never fails. Scratch a guy who always talks about what a winner he is or how he’s “self-made” or how he’s pulled himself up by the bootstraps, and underneath you’ll always find a little boy who had everything handed to him. It was like they needed a blind spot to justify their tremendous luck. Something like:
I can’t have all of this because of fate or chance—I must be special.

“I’m asking you to be reasonable, Tom.”

“That’s your message to me?”

“It is.”

“I’ll pass, thanks. I’m on the verge of victory. You”—he pointed at Myron—“are proof of that. She’s getting desperate. Tell her I said to kiss my ass.”

“I told you already: Esperanza doesn’t know I’m here. I just think you should do the right thing.”

“For her sake?”

“For her sake. For Hector’s sake. And for your sake.”

“For mine?”

“I think it would be best.”

“Well, I don’t give a shit what you think. Go home, Myron.”

Myron nodded. “Will do.”

Tom waited. Myron started to cross the street, but he stopped and did his best Columbo turn. “Oh, one thing.”

“What’s that?”

Myron tried not to smile. “I saw Win.”

The street went silent. Even the music spilling out of the nightclub seemed to hush.

“You’re lying.”

“No, Tom, I’m not. He’s coming home. And when he does, I’m sure he’ll want to pay you a visit.”

Tom stood there, frozen. Geri, still inside the car, finally lost it and threw up in the loudest way possible. Windows rattled. Tom still didn’t move.

Myron let the smile come to his face as he waved good-bye. “Have a great night.”

I
t was a bright, clear New Jersey morning.

Huge neon lettering on the southern side of the Lower Trenton Toll Supported Bridge spelled out the following slogan:
TRENTON
MAKES
,
THE
WORLD
TAK
ES
. The letters were installed in 1935, and maybe back then, with linoleum, ceramics, and other manufacturing plants in full swing, there was a modicum of truth in the wording. Not now. Trenton was the capital of New Jersey, home to the state government and thus filled with politicians and their ensuing scandals, which made the entire city, when you thought about it, as honest as the message on the bridge you crossed to enter it.

Still, Myron loved this state, and anyone with even an inkling of knowledge knew that New Jersey hardly held a patent on
governmental corruption. The political scandals might be more colorful here, but then again, everything was. New Jersey was hard to define because it was a hodgepodge. Up north, it was the suburbs of New York City. To the southwest, it was the suburbs of Philadelphia. Those two major cities drained resources and attention from New Jersey’s own urban centers, leaving Newark and Camden and the like sucking for life like a retiree with an oxygen tank at an Atlantic City casino. The suburbs were lush and green. The cities were destitute and concrete. And so it goes.

Still, it was odd. Anyone who lived within a forty-minute drive of Chicago or Los Angeles or Houston said they were from that city. But you could live two miles from New York City and you would say you were from New Jersey. Myron grew up half an hour away from New York City and maybe five miles from Newark. He never said he was from either. Well, one time he said he was from Newark, but that was because he wanted to apply for financial aid.

You put all that together—the beauty, the blight, the sophisticated cities, the inferiority complex, the tacky, the classy—and you got the indefinable color and texture of the great state of New Jersey. Better to find the definition of New Jersey in Sinatra’s voice, in Tony Soprano’s ride, in a Springsteen song. Listen closely. You’ll get it.

Myron was a little disappointed to see that Neil Huber looked the part of a New Jersey politician. His fingers were sausage thick, a gold pinkie ring on his right hand. His suit was striped; his tie shimmered as though someone had sprayed it with tanning oil. The collar of his shirt was too tight, and when he smiled, Neil Huber resembled a barracuda.

“Myron Bolitar,” he said, greeting him with a firm handshake
and showing him to a seat. The office had a plainness you might associate with your high school vice principal’s.

“I coached against you when you were in high school,” Huber said.

“I remember.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Pardon?”

“What, did you look it up when you knew we were meeting?”

Myron held out his hands, wrists together. “Caught.”

Neil gave him a good-natured wave. “No worries. So you know you beat us.”

“Yes.”

“And that you scored forty-two points.”

Myron said, “It was a long time ago.”

“I coached high school basketball for eighteen years.” He pointed a stubby finger at Myron. “You, my friend, are the best I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you.”

“I hear you got a nephew playing.”

“I do.”

“He as special as they say?”

“I think so.”

“Good, great.” Neil Huber leaned back. “So, Myron, have we done enough of the break-the-ice, chitchat thing?”

“I think we have.”

Neil spread his hands. “What can I do for you?”

He had the prerequisite family photographs on the desk—a blond wife with big hair, grown married children, a sprinkling of young grandkids. On the wall behind him, the New Jersey State flag featured a shield with three plows and a horse’s head above it.
Yep, a horse’s head. You can fill in your own
Godfather
joke, but it will be obvious and beneath you. Two female goddesses, the goddess of liberty (okay) and the goddess of agriculture (again too easy), stood on either side of the shield. The flag was bizarre and dense, but then again, bizarre and dense described New Jersey pretty accurately.

“It’s about a case you worked when you were a cop in Alpine,” Myron said.

“The Moore and Baldwin kidnappings,” he said.

“How did you know?”

“I was a detective. So I deduced.”

“I see.”

“Clue one”—he raised his index finger—“I worked on very few major cases. Clue two”—he was making a peace sign now—“I worked on exactly one major case that remains unsolved. Clue three”—you get the drift with the fingers—“one of the abducted boys was just found after ten years.” He lowered his hand. “Yes, sir, really took all my powers of deduction to come up with that one. Myron?”

“What?”

“Did you know the Moores are going on CNN in a few hours?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Instead of a big press conference, they’re doing a sit-down with Anderson Cooper at noon.” He leaned forward. “Please tell me you’re not press.”

“I’m not press.”

“So what’s your interest in this?”

Myron debated how to play it. “Could I just say it’s a long story?”

“You could. It won’t get you anywhere. But you could.”

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Plus, politico though he might appear, Myron was taking a shine to Neil Huber. Why not be honest if you can?

“I’m the one who rescued Patrick.”

“Come again?”

“In London. Like I said, it’s a long story. My friend is Rhys Baldwin’s cousin. He got a tip on his whereabouts. We tracked him down.”

“Whoa.”

“Yes.”

“You said it was a long story.”

“Right.”

“Maybe you should tell it to me.”

Myron gave him as much as he could without incriminating or even mentioning Win by name. Still, Neil Huber wasn’t an idiot. It wouldn’t be difficult to find out who Rhys’s cousin was. But so what?

When he finished, Neil said, “Holy crap.”

“Yeah.”

“So I still don’t get why you’re here.”

“I’m looking into the case again.”

“I thought you became a sports agent or something.”

“It’s complicated.”

“I suppose it is,” Neil said.

“I just want to take a fresh look at it.”

Neil nodded. “You figure I made a mistake and maybe you can look at it and see what I was missing?”

“It’s been ten years,” Myron said. “We know new things now.” He thought about how Win had put it. “It’s like a car trip where
you don’t know where you’re going. Last week, we only knew the start. Now we know where the car was a few days ago.”

Neil frowned. “What?”

“It sounded better when my friend said it.”

“I’m just busting your balls. Look, I only had the case a short time. The FBI took it away from me pretty fast.” He tilted back in his chair and rested his hands on his belly. “Ask away.”

“So yesterday I was at the crime scene.”

“The Baldwins’ house.”

“Yes. And I was trying to piece together how it all happened. That backyard is wide open, and the kitchen has those big windows.”

“Plus,” Neil added, “there’s a gate by the driveway entrance. And fencing around the property.”

“Exactly. And there’s the timing.”

“The timing?”

“They were kidnapped around noon. Most kids are still in school at the time. How did the kidnappers know they’d be home?”

“Ah,” Neil said.

“Ah?”

“You see holes.”

“I do.”

“You think the official scenario doesn’t add up.”

“Something like that.”

“And you think, what, we didn’t notice all this stuff ten years ago? We raised all the issues you’re raising now. And more of them. But you know what? Lots of crimes don’t make sense. You can poke holes in almost anything. Take the gate, for example.
The Baldwins never closed it. It was useless. The backyard? The Baldwins had lawn furniture. You could sneak up that way. Or you could press your body against the back of the house and no one would see you until you were by the windows.”

“I see,” Myron said. “So you satisfied your doubts?”

“Whoa, I never said that.”

Neil Huber loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. The red in his face seemed to drain away. Now Myron did have a sense of déjà vu. He could see the younger man, the coach for the other team, or maybe it was just a fake memory he was concocting for the occasion.

“I had doubts,” he said, his voice a little quieter now. “We all did, I guess. But at the end of the day, the two boys were gone. We followed every angle we could find. Stranger abductions like this—breaking into a house, asking for a ransom—are extremely rare. So we looked hard at the parents. We looked hard at the families, the neighbors, the teachers.”

“How about the nanny?”

“Au pair,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“She wasn’t a nanny. She was an au pair. Big difference.”

“In what way?”

“An au pair is like an exchange program. They’re always from a foreign country. In this case, Vada Linna—yep, I remember the name—was from Finland. They are usually young. Vada was eighteen. Her English was fair at best. They are supposedly there in part on something of a cultural education, but most people go with them because they’re cheap labor.”

“You think that was the case here?”

He thought about it. “Nah, I don’t. Not really. The Baldwins
have a lot of money. I think they bought into the whole international experience stuff and loved the idea of having their kids in the company of a foreigner. From what I understood, Brooke and Chick treated Vada well. That whole angle—it’s one of the reasons I hate the press so much.”

“What is?”

“When the crap hit the fan, the media had a field day with all of that slave labor–au pair talk. You know—privileged rich girl Brooke Baldwin hires poor, cheap worker so she can get her hair done or lunch with the ladies or whatever. Like she wasn’t already victimized enough. Like losing her son was somehow her fault.”

Myron remembered reading a bit about the controversy at the time. “Vada’s story about the break-in,” he said. “Did you believe it?”

Huber took his time on this one. His hand rubbed his face. “I don’t know. I mean, the girl was clearly traumatized. She may have been fudging some of the details, trying to make herself look better or something. Like we’ve both noted, there were parts that didn’t add up. But that could have been the language barrier too. Or the cultural barrier, whatever. I wish we’d had more time with her.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Vada’s father showed up within twenty-four hours. Flew in from Helsinki and hired a shark lawyer. The father demanded to take her home. The ordeal was too much for her, he said. He wanted her to get care in Finland. We tried to stall, but we had no reason to hold her. So he flew her home.” Neil looked up. “Truth? I would have liked another crack at Vada.”

“Do you think she was involved?”

Again he took his time. Myron liked that Neil Huber was
trying to give him thoughtful answers. “We looked at her hard. We went through her computer history. There was nothing. We checked her text messages. There was nothing there that stood out. Vada was just a teen alone in a foreign country. She had one friend, another au pair, and that was about it. We tried to work out various theories where she’d been in on the kidnapping in some way. You know. Maybe she gave the kids to an accomplice. Then the accomplice tied her up. They make up a story about a kitchen break-in. That kind of thing. But nothing added up. We even explored the possibility that maybe Vada was a psycho. Maybe she snapped and killed them and hid the bodies. But nothing came of that either.”

Their eyes met.

“So what do you think happened, Neil?”

There was a pen on his desk. He picked it up and started twirling it between his fingers. “Well, that’s why recent developments are interesting.”

“How so?”

“They blow away my theory.”

“Which was?”

He shrugged. “I always figured that Patrick and Rhys were dead. I figured that whatever happened—abduction, break-in, whatever—that the two boys were killed right away. The killers then pretended to be kidnappers and did that whole ransom-drop thing to distract us. Or maybe they hoped that it would be easy money but they realized that they’d get caught. I don’t know.”

“But why would someone kill two boys?”

“Yeah, motive. That’s a tougher nut to crack. But I think the crime scene is the key.”

“Meaning?”

“The Baldwin home.”

“You think Rhys was the target?”

“Had to be. It was his house. The playdate was planned two days before, so you couldn’t know Patrick Moore would be there. So maybe these guys are told to grab a six-year-old boy. But when they break in, there are two of them. So they don’t know which is which or their instructions aren’t so clear, so they figure, let’s grab both. Just to be sure.”

“And again: Motive?”

“Nothing concrete. Hell, not even wet cement. Just wild conjecture on my part.”

“Like?”

“The only parent who we had anything on was Chick Baldwin. The guy’s a crook, plain and simple, and right about then, when his Ponzi scheme collapsed, he pissed off a lot of people. Some of his money came from questionable Russians, if you know what I mean. Chick skated too. No jail time, small fine. Good lawyers. That upset a lot of folks. All his assets were in his kids’ names, so no one could touch him. Do you know the guy at all?”

“Chick? Just a little.”

“He’s not a good guy, Myron.”

Almost word for word what Win had said.

“Anyway,” Neil said, “that’s what I thought. They were dead. But now that Patrick is alive . . .”

He just let it hang there. The two men looked at each other for a long moment.

Myron said, “Why do I have a feeling you’re holding back on me, Senator?”

“Because I am.”

“And why would you do that?”

“Because I’m not sure if the next part is any of your goddamn business.”

“You can trust me,” Myron said.

“If I didn’t trust you, I would have thrown you out of my office a long time ago.”